The Nearly Empty Flat
by ACtravels
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was back. And he needed to focus on the case because god damn it all if Sherlock let sentiment ruin his return as well as dictate his exit. Return-fic. Reworking of The Empty House - as Sherlock would say, obviously.
1. London

Sherlock wouldn't exactly say he was excited – he usually saved that sort of thing for when he was on the cusp of working out something helpful, difficult or complex – but he'd dreamt amount the moment for months, ran scenarios in his head over and over and _now _the moment had arrived and he entirely tended to seize it and enjoy it.

Of course, for the time being things had to be functional; he needed Scotland Yard if he was going to have Sebastian Moran arrested. And Mycroft had assured him that in this case, having him in prison was by far the best form of approach. He'd offered a suggestion that, if Sherlock got him arrested, that he wouldn't last a great deal of time inside (a promise, coming from Mycroft Holmes, rather than a prediction) and thus Sherlock had waited, dreaming of the moment when he could _come home, _for Sebastian Moran to do something wrong. Not wrong as in morally-wrong, the man was heavily involved in dealing, acquisition of guns and increasing the funds of the organisation through various illicit deals, but wrong as in a _mistake _wrong. And given he'd have to be beyond the normal levels of stupid not to realise that, after all the other top men in Moriarty's business had disappeared under dubious circumstances, been arrested or had died due to unfathomable accidents, that_ someone_ was after him. So it had taken a long time.

Long enough for Sherlock to go half mad with boredom and to imagine coming home so many times that he was almost bored of unoriginality of his own mind, but not quite.

He'd returned to Baker Street to acquire his coat, had nearly shocked Mrs Hudson into a heart attack (he had attempted to approach the subject delicately with her, but there's only so much sensitivity a self-diagnosed sociopath who should really be dead can achieve without help – and Mycroft was being singularly useless on this point) before asking about John's generally whereabouts in relationship to Baker Street.

The _well he moved out, years ago Sherlock, _had been news to him and he'd endured a rather heated telephone conversation with Mycroft about the subject. After Sherlock had been forced to accept – well, ask for, really – financial aid the trade off for semi-regular updates about the state of his well being had been _tell me John's okay _(an awkward conversation that had been most decidedly done by phone, or else neither would have been comfortable enough to even attempt broaching the void: Mycroft had thought that money and the added fact that he'd been mourning his brother's death for nine months should have held more weight in the negotiations, but at that point Sherlock was half-drugged, angry and desperate meaning he had no qualms bringing up the this-is-all-your-fault-anyway-card which had made Mycroft go very silent for awhile). So, on one of his fake-phones, Sherlock had a sea of texts detailing John's every day movements _John forgot to buy milk. John returned to practice at the surgery. _Sherlock made a big show of being quite annoyed at the inane pieces of information Mycroft delivered (usually with some sort of mocking and derisive comment about _feelings_), but he'd lived for them for years.

He wasn't stupid enough to trust Mycroft. He'd regularly sent anonymous notes (with large sums of money attached) to the irregulars asking them to provide updates on a certain _John Watson. _And none of them had been able to contradict Mycroft's tales, meaning that Mycroft had anticipated his distrust (of course he had) and had someone made it appear, for years, as though John was still inhabiting Baker Street. Upon this news he'd actually resorted to yelling down the phone in his old sitting room, at which Mycroft had told him to grow up and reminded him that he wasn't supposed to be seeing John until the post-arrest stage of proceedings, so really he should have avoiding 221B Baker Street all together. The excuse _I needed my coat _had almost fallen off his tongue before he resisted, pulling the coat on and exiting Baker Street in a rush (_I'll need your help later, Mrs Hudson). _Because Mycroft was right. After being back in London for less than a week he was already acting like a careless, over excited school boy who was about to receive some great treat. And he needed to focus on the _case _because god damn it all if Sherlock let _sentiment _ruin his return a well as dictate his exit.

He'd paused slightly outside Baker Street, giving himself a long moment to take in the familiar street, to turn his collar up and slip his scarf round his neck before hailing a cab. _So familiar. _

Mycroft rang him when he was in the cab. Sherlock ceremoniously rejected the call. The text arrived a few secondly later.

_HAVE YOU GONE MAD, SHERLOCK? EVEN MUMMY WOULD RECOGNISE YOU IN THAT GET UP – MH_

Sherlock let out a derisive laugh at that. He wasn't about to tell Mycroft that was the point, he was sure his brother would work that out fairly swiftly. In fact, he'd probably already had and was around oiling the wheels of his plan and setting it jittering into motion. If his brother wasn't so utterly convinced that Sherlock was going to mess this up in the name of feelings, he wouldn't have bothered calling at all.

Sherlock had his secrets too. Last time the two brothers had been face to face, Sherlock had been almost completely bald with blonde eyebrows and eyelashes, shoulders slumped into a ridiculously unnatural posture and an oversized hoodie. Although Mycroft had been struck by how much Sherlock was able to pull off the _student _look, he'd also been able to recognise Sherlock in less than a minute and chastised him for being so careless ('I've been dead for two years, Mycroft, and those who believe I'm still alive think I'm currently in Russia') resulting in another heated debate about the necessity of plastic surgery. "_I'll arrange everything with no draining of your funds, Sherlock." "We're not all happy to abuse the NHS so readily." "The British Government has a percentage of the national wealth invested in keeping you alive, if you weren't so stubborn as to accept help."_

Still, recently Sherlock had been letting his appearance to return to the realms of the comfortable: his hair had grown back to its usual length, the natural colour, he'd gotten rid of the facial hair he'd been using in his last disguise, removed the dark brown contacts and had instead relied on his rudimentary disguise techniques to get him into London undetected. The result being, Mycroft had been unaware of Sherlock's return to his former glory until he'd stripped off the layers of disguise in Baker Street, pulled on his coat and his scarf feeling almost _normal_. Mycroft was doubtlessly annoyed that Sherlock had fed him a fake-plan until the last moment, but Sherlock didn't imagine that it hadn't been unexpected – when it came down to it, the cases were more important than the sibling rivalry and if Sherlock didn't believe and, well, trust _(sort of)_ his brother to react appropriately and conveniently at short notice, he'd give him a great deal more of notice.

"Scotland Yard." Sherlock told the cabbie as a second text arrived.

_DON'T BE SO PREDICTABLE – MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned off his phone, flipping it over and removing the battery. Mycroft had no doubt stored some sort of GPS device to _track him _that would probably work even when switched off. He supposed, if this was another occasion, the only way to really rid himself of its tracking-power as to throw the phone in the Thames, but if someone found it then he really would be in trouble... and this was one of those occasions where Sherlock had deemed enlisting his brother's help as prudent. Particularly as he'd rather revealed his hand with the whole _John business _(Sherlock's stomach jolted slightly and Sherlock made a mental note not to think about John until this was all over, as dictated by his _own plan_). But, for now, he didn't want to be tracked and given that he was entirely sure that the only reason Mycroft hadn't attached a tracking device under his skin because he knew Sherlock would noticed and rely on all means necessary to get rid of it – from removing it with his own fingers to black market surgery, Sherlock didn't really care as long as he felt he could be a breathable distance away from his brother – taking the battery out of the phone would have to do. _Rudimentary. Obvious. _

He'd be glad when the case was over.

The walk through Scotland Yard was every bit as liberating and satisfying as he thought it would be. The gritty feeling of not being able to be himself properly had stung. He'd had no choice. Sherlock's acting ability was usually refined for short, sharp bursts... but Sherlock had spent three years reigning himself in and constructing new alias after new alias for himself – cultivating his behaviour and having to navigate himself around other people. He'd suffered through having to tell jokes, having to laugh at other's jokes, having to benignly sit in pubs and be talked at and had, on several hideous occasions, found that _going on dates _had been necessary to acquire the information he acquired. The role that John usually performed _(don't think about John, don't think about John, don't think about John - ) _in getting information and whatever else he was searching for (company? Sex?) from women like Louise Mortimer had fallen down to him. And without the blogs Sherlock would arduously pick apart and criticize, sometimes he felt like none of the catalogue of events had even happened. In fact, that's what he tried to tell himself on a regular basis – that this was a long, extended dream that wasn't really happening. And any second he would wake up, and John would call him an idiot and make him a cup of tea.

Several eyes followed him as he walked through Scotland Yard, but not as many as should have done – given the fact that he was both a stranger who shouldn't really be there and that he was supposed to be ten feet under. _Typical Scotland Yard: don't even notice when a corpse walks right through their head quarters._

There were new faces. The layout had changed. Sherlock didn't like that, but there wasn't much he could have done to restore everything about his life to precisely as how he had left it.

Then, there he was, stood in front of Donovan's desk exactly how he'd anticipated thousands of times before. Mycroft would say he was being dramatic and childish. Perhaps he was. But he'd been dead for three years and this was the first time he'd been allowed to be very much alive and he was going to _enjoy it._

"Lestrade around?" Sherlock asked. "I need a word."

Donovan's head shot upwards. She blanched, her mouth twisting into an expression of upmost horror. Her eyes widened. She froze.

"I've got a case," Sherlock continued, "It's a good one. He'll want it."

* * *

_I know it's been done before, but after starting work on a retelling of the Norwood Builder, I just really wanted to have a go at this one too. So this and 'The Builder' are adjoining fics, although you can read one without the other or whatever. This is, obviously, my take on 'The Empty House' which belongs to Conan Doyle and so obviously isn't mine. But, I really enjoyed writing this and I have another one or two chapter written (I was going to wait to post it till after I'd finished 'The Builder' but, well, I'm procrastinating to the highest degree of things)... but, yeah, if you enjoyed it let me know. Reviews would be lovely. Thanks for reading! :)_


	2. Business as Usual

The reaction from Donovan was better than expected. She stared at him for a few minutes long, jaw locked slightly as her eyes darted up and down his appearance: she would, inevitably, miss out all the important subtleties that explained so much – he was thinner, the traces of that god awful costume make up on his hands, slightly less pale than usual, nicotine stained fingers. But, she had gotten the general gist that Sherlock Holmes was standing _right there. _And that, Sherlock supposed, was enough for her to try and grasp at this particular moment in time.

"Don't be dull, Donovan," Sherlock continued, "You're not _going mad." _

"You're -"

"If you finish that sentence with dead, then you might have outdone Anderson on levels of stupid. Oh look, my hearts beating and I'm breathing! Not dead. Really, and they let you work on murder cases?"

Donovan continued to stare at him. Sherlock sighed slightly with a _really why are you so slow _type expression that he'd been wanting to use for so long. He'd never thought it would be possible to _miss _Donovan, but being allowed to continually insult and berate someone was so satisfying and Sally Donovan was, at current, such an obliging subject.

"Would you like me to cause you some degree of physical pain to ensure you're not dreaming?" He asked sarcastically, "believe me, it would be a pleasure."

"You..." Donovan began again.

"Faked my own death? Yes. I'll wait in Lestrade's office, shall I? Do tell him to hurry up. It's quite important."

Lestrade's office hadn't changed much, not that Sherlock had expected it to. Still, he was craving knowledge about Lestrade too (there'd been the occasional texts concerning Lestrade's welfare too, but Sherlock was now writing these all off as fiction after the John-revelations) and the office revealed a little about the three years of his absence: _got back together with his wife again... twice...currently separated but sleeping together, investigation after Sherlock's 'death' was brutal. Reputation still not quite recovered, despite the fact that – evidentially – Lestrade managed to keep his job._

"I should warn you..." Donovan's voice said outside, she was up on her feet and trying to block Lestrade's path to his office, "sir, it's -"

The door opened. Sherlock tried for a smile.

"_Sherlock_."

Lestrade looked older than Sherlock remembered (and Sherlock was an idiot for not anticipating this), but the lines of stress now etched onto his feature mad his stomach turn over slightly. He hated that things had to change. That it was likely that some of the age on Lestrade's face was caused by _him_.

"Hello," Sherlock said amiably, "thought I'd drop by."

Lestrade's eyes fixed on Sherlock for a long few moment, in which Sherlock wanted to do nothing more than close the gap and... he didn't know, pat him on the back, or something? Anything, really, that could express some of the giddy, strange feeling in his stomach at seeing him again. He hadn't expected to feel the knife of some sort of emotion in the back of his throat, to feel self conscious and guilty and want to offer _an explanation_.

"In case you didn't get that, I'm not dead."

"Shut the door," Lestrade instructed to Donovan, stepping forwards unsteadily and taking a seat. Donovan shut the door and stepped closer to Lestrade uncomfortably, her eyes still getting on Sherlock every few moments. Lestrade seemed to not want to blink. "Jesus, Sherlock, you..." Lestrade said, his eyes not leaving his face, "you jumped off a building."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "I suppose I did. But I am also very much alive."

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Busy," Sherlock said and that was true enough, "still, the Ronald Adair murder –"

" – Sherlock," Lestrade said, shaking his head, "you can't just... _why_?"

Mycroft had given him instructions not to get sentimental in his explanations. In fact, he'd been entirely sure that Sherlock shouldn't have contacted anyone he previously knew and instead acted entirely on anonymous tip offs, but Sherlock had insisted. Still, he knew what had to be done. Now was not the time to tell Lestrade that he'd been forced into faking his own death due a sniper pointing at a gun at Lestrade. Now was not the time to venture that he, Sherlock, viewed Lestrade as a friend. Now was the time for _business as usual. _

"Moriarty was making things uncomfortable," Sherlock said, sparing a glance at Donovan and adding, "he's _really real_, by the way. Well, _was_. As both Scotland Yard and the secret service really are so fantastically adept at achieving anything, someone had to do something to stop his network spiralling further out of control. Dear Jim had already successfully made my work in London impossible to continue, with a degree of help from..." he looked back at Donovan again, "_others_, so I branched out. Quite the international consultant, these days."

Lestrade looked sufficiently pissed off, which is exactly what Sherlock had anticipated. He wanted to say something to make it clear that it hadn't been at all as he was paining it – a bit of fun, another case – that he hadn't been carefree or enjoyed it, even for a second. Instead the task had been a horrible necessity.

"Still," Sherlock said, "nice to breathe London back into the lungs."

That meant _I missed you. _It meant _I've wanted to come back for so long._

Neither Lestrade nor Donovan seemed to have anything further to say him. Donovan's shock had almost worn off and instead her expression was bordering on incredulously. She wasn't about to make a comment about his sociopathic tendencies, it seemed: probably because she knew that this time, after the speech Sherlock had just delivered, Lestrade would have to agree that Sherlock was just _not _a good man and after everything Lestrade had almost lost supporting the man, it seemed an insult to injury to highlight how pointless that had a been.

"Right, I assume, being as incompetent as ever, that you've made no progress whatsoever on the murder of Ronald Adair?"

"How did you do it?" Donovan finally asked.

"I had a degree of help," Sherlock said, "I don't wish to implicate anyone, specifically."

"John?"

"No," Sherlock said, the sound of John's name coming from Donovan's lips made him itch to see him. He missed John invariably, "speaking of which, it would be convenient if none of you mentioned this to John. He might be slightly surprised to know I'm on another investigation."

Lestrade was beginning to look angry.

"John doesn't know?" Lestrade demanded. "Sherlock, you can't just -"

"It was necessary." Sherlock said, feeling his heart constricting slightly in his chest. If they knew... if they knew how easy it would have been to walk straight back into Baker Street and to come home... but he couldn't. Sherlock didn't have the luxury of being sentimental. Sherlock wasn't the type of person who could be permitted to put what he wanted first, not when the consequences would be so widespread and utterly inconvenient.

"You need to tell John, right now."

"I can't," Sherlock said, "the case."

He wouldn't be able to focus. Wouldn't be able to leave John's side. Wouldn't be able to stay away.

"Sherlock -"

"_Please." _Sherlock said, the word feeling uncomfortable on his lips, but not as uncomfortable as the wave of emotions that were threatening to _spill the hell over. _He couldn't let that happen. The plan was already set into motion.

The word threw Lestrade's brain into a separate gear and it was then that he began to notice how bloody thin Sherlock looked, how tired, the slight mad-shine to his eyes and how very much Lestrade was reminded of a junkie-Sherlock. He'd never heard him say please for anything, either. Although, considering the man was supposed to be dead, that wasn't something he felt he should be focusing on right now. There was a state of disbelief surrounding it all, but Sherlock was there.

"I need you to trust me." Sherlock said, his stiff expression making Lestrade feel as though the man was seconds away from exploding and doing something rash and compulsive. Gregory Lestrade's mind flittered back to three years ago, one of the few occasions he hadn't trusted Sherlock, and that hadn't exactly ended well for him.

"You'll explain what the hell's going on?" Lestrade asked evenly.

"In excruciating detail, if you so wish. As soon as we've caught Sebastian Moran."

"Sebastian Moran?" Lestrade questioned, feeling his head beginning to hurt; as it often did when he thought of Sherlock, both pre-fall and post-mortem (supposedly), the mere memory of Sherlock often made his head ache with trying to understand.

"The murderer of Ronald Adair, who will attempt to kill me in a similar fashion this evening."

* * *

_Pah, poor Sherlock. He didn't get a really good chance to appreciate Donovan's changing facial expressions... but, still, there's always Anderson? Thanks for the reviews and such, guys. Hope you enjoyed this chapter too! You should definitely tell me if you did ;)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	3. Not Entirely Idiotic

There were several hours to kill before the plan could be implemented; meaning Sherlock had to continue to resist throwing caution to the wind and doing something downright reckless. Instead of embracing his desire to do something dangerous Sherlock sat in a cafe across from Angelo's, but not Angelo's (as Sherlock was not, as he brother continued to imply, completely idiotic). He was disguised again, crudely – a bald cap which made his head look slightly misshapen over his curls, a pair of thick glasses, a different stature. Disguises were simple enough. Sherlock knew enough about what people saw but did not observe to create a whole caricature of someone who would draw no attention – nothing too perfectly stereotypical, with enough human irregularities to mean that no one would pare him a second glance. This was, again, rudimentary. Obvious. Dull. Quick to be undone. Still recognisable, if you were looking.

They would, by now, be looking.

Sherlock pulled out the phone, returned the battery, deleted the messages from Mycroft before reading them, pressed dial and brought the phone to his ear. He did not _want_ to phone Mycroft. After this he was entirely sure they both needed to separate themselves from each other and not talk for several months, because Sherlock himself detested being dependent on others and the longer this charade continued the more high-and-mighty Mycroft became, a defence mechanism against the fact that, really, this was all his fault.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked the second the ring was cut off. They rarely bothered with the usual niceties, beginning conversations with some scathing or insulting comment... but, today Sherlock didn't have time for that either. He was on edge. The image of Lestrade's face wouldn't leave him, his brain running into overdrive as he tried to anticipate what John would do and say when they came face to face. Sherlock wasn't even entirely sure what he was going to do or same in that direction. As much as he'd been looking forward to the expression on Donovan and Anderson's faces, as far as his _friends _were concerned he wanted to skip the reunion-bit altogether and swiftly return to the way things were. Because they'd been good.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. We discussed this."

"Not to find him," Sherlock said impatiently, "you need to make sure he doesn't come anyway near Baker Street till this is finished. He needs to be safe."

"He won't be there."

"Why should I trust you?" Sherlock asked.

"Because, Sherlock, I have your welfare in mind. If you believed that John was anything but perfectly okay you would have returned to London, endangering your life. Currently, it is prudent and necessary for your welfare for John to be safe and elsewhere. After struggling to keep you alive for such an extensive period of time I am not about to let you ruin yourself, again, over John Watson. He will be safe. He will be out of the way. He is, currently, not your problem. You need to trust me."

"I don't trust your judgement."

"I have priorities." Mycroft returned crisply.

"Obviously." Sherlock muttered, letting his shoulders slump forwards in a fitting way for his disguise. If he'd known that reappearing in his brother's life in a drugged-haze, half dead (half less than he was suppose to be, at that point) and utterly despondent would have induced a fit of over protection of this magnitude he would have planned the whole thing better. Put more money aside. Let Mycroft into the loop sooner. Anything, really, would be preferable from having his brother treating him as though he was very breakable and very volatile, editing information before it got to him as though Sherlock couldn't handle the truth (an annoying trait that usually didn't work; Sherlock wasn't thick, after all. He wasn't quite so obvious as to believe anything his brother fed to him... but, this time he'd had little choice but to trust it).

"John can take care of himself," Mycroft said, "if he wonders too close to your part of London I'll provide an intervention."

"Fine." Sherlock retorted.

"How did it go?"

"Fine."

"You didn't -"

"-no, Mycroft, I am not a child and I am not an idiot."

"I assume they took it badly, given your tone."

"I thought that wasn't important right now," Sherlock said, irritably – of course Lestrade wasn't going to be delighted by the concept that he'd faked his death for the sake of a case, anymore than John was ever going to forgive him for the _I'm a fake _speech, "it's going to happen tonight."

"It would have been better to wait."

"It doesn't make a difference," Sherlock said, "I'll return to Baker Street later. I've got a few things I want to take care of first. Yes, they're relevant to the case."

"I gather you want my help."

"If it's not too much bother, dearest brother" Sherlock drawled, "you managed to fool my men and I doubt Moran is any more observant."

"It would have fooled you, had you have been so ludicrous as to test it."

"That was the point, I suppose. Although you've _really _facilitated the plan."

"It's a ridiculous plan fuelled by your love of dramatics and desire for revenge. How you've manage to avoid prison or being murdered thus far..."

"Save the nagging," Sherlock interrupted, "stop having me tailed. It's impossible to remain inconspicuous whilst your men are on my back. You know I can shake them off if I want, Mycroft, so you might as well save me the bother and make the phone call."

"I have yet to look over the Ronald Adair case."

"So you were listening at the Yard," Sherlock said irritably, "don't ask if you already know, Mycroft. Better yet, stop interfering with my business," Sherlock pushed his glasses up his nose – a habit he had appropriated for this particular disguise – "up surveillance and protection on John and stop tailing me."

"If you don't remove the battery from your phone I will not have anyone tail you."

"Fine." Sherlock said, hanging up and rolling his shoulders forward again. _It's necessary. It's necessary. Soon it will be over and you can go home. _

Sherlock glanced at the time on his watch. He needed to return to Scotland Yard shortly. This time his arrival had to be inconspicuous. Hence, Lestrade would be arriving in a few short minutes to have him arrested. Ideally, they wouldn't have been able to ascertain where Sherlock was quite yet – something which he wanted them to realise a few hours later, when he'd already left the Yard and set a few more things into motion – but even if they knew the nervous, bald man with the glasses was one Sherlock Holmes they'd definitely be confused when he was pulled off the street in handcuffs.

Lestrade had thought the idea was ridiculous, but at that point he thought that everything Sherlock was doing was absolutely ridiculous so it made very little difference. Repeatedly Sherlock had told himself that he didn't care what Lestrade thought providing he showed up at the right time and generally fulfilled his role as almighty pawn in this bloody game of chess, but even Sherlock knew that there was a heavy lining of denial on that comment. Lestrade had pulled him out of the twisty, desperate days when Sherlock would have done damn anything to stave away the boredom. The days when the only thing that let him breathe had to be injected into his arm. Sherlock wasn't exactly thankful, but he was aware. He was acutely aware of everything that Lestrade added to his life and the fact that he had, undoubtedly, pissed the man off beyond usual levels of irritation... it wasn't exactly how he'd _wanted_ to return from the dead.

Sherlock hadn't drunk his coffee (the wrong sort of stimulation, for a time like this), but he supposed that would make him more memorable and drank half of the cold, foul liquid before leaving a few silver coins on the table and exiting the cafe. He needed to be a fair distance away from where he'd been sitting inconspicuous and normal when he was arrested.

Sherlock pulled out his phone. Mycroft had not texted him again. Sherlock considered paying the irregulars to find John themselves, as Mycroft had been so wholly dishonest about John's welfare (why had he moved out of Baker Street?) but there was neither time nor room for sentiment at this exact moment. Sherlock had to concentrate on the plan.

_Return to London. Let Moriarty's gang see him. Spend a day running round London in various different get ups to thoroughly confuse them and make them think he's planning something..._

A police car appeared up the road. Sherlock walked faster, eye on its progress, and decided to plant the damn phone on Lestrade for a bit. Undoubtedly, Mycroft would realise soon enough... but it would give Sherlock enough time to get away.

Lestrade's question was still ringing in his head._ Isn't there another way to solve this without offering yourself up as live bait? _Sherlock had cast this off as stupid, had left forth a stream of colourful and imaginative insults. The remark was too akin to Mycroft's insistence that Sherlock was being unnecessary and dramatic. That, if he took a little more time, he'd be able to frame Moran for the Ronald Adair murder without putting himself or John (and Mycroft had really hammered that point home) into danger. Time was no longer up for compromise. It had been three years since he'd been able to talk to his best friend and Sherlock wasn't about to let any more days add onto that total. Danger, well, that could be reconsidered. There was none of the usual adrenaline and _love of the game _in this. It was too personal and, well, emotional. Complicated.

So, maybe there was an easier option. Maybe there was another way.

After he'd given Lestrade more details about exactly who they had to watch out for, where they had to be, how this would prove Moran's guilt, where he'd be – all details he'd usually hold hostage until the last minute, but Lestrade was already pissed and if this went wrong Sherlock would not forgive himself – Sherlock would plant the phone on Lestrade then make his way to Ronald Adair's apartment.

Neither Lestrade nor Mycroft needed to know he was considering their suggestion.

Sherlock wasn't about to give them the satisfaction.

The yarders tumbled out of the police car. Sherlock burst into a run, pushing his way through the groups of people on the street. Lestrade's was quicker, as Sherlock had intended, and within a few seconds Sherlock was having his wrists – all too roughly – shoved into a pair of handcuffs.

_Just like old times._

* * *

_Progress! Thanks for all the reviews, favourites and alerts, guys! Next chapter we'll be following John, I believe. But then the plan could very well change. Reviews are lovely. Thanks for reading!_


	4. John Watson

It was the sort of case that John thought Sherlock would find interesting (well, not as _dulldulldull_ as the rest of them) and thus the slight pull towards the scene had been easier to give into he felt closer to Sherlock as he edged around the fringes of the crime scene, never getting too close to the police tape in case someone recognised him.

Ronald Adair had, it seemed, been a perfectly amiable man. His father headed up some large company which meant that he was very wealthy, but appeared to have steered away from the usual wealthy-young-man stereotype. He had no enemies, as far as anyone could work out. His only vice was gambling and even then he didn't appear to be addicted heading to Casino's with a marginal sum of money (for someone as rich as him, anyway), playing for a few hours and returning without particularly caring with he'd earned or lost money. A strong moral compass, it had been said. Nothing untoward.

Yet the man had been found shot in his house: alone in a locked room of his penthouse suite.

It had been difficult for John to shed the love of crime and these days, when he had a grip of his grief and was more or less functioning, he thought that allowing his brain to start trying to dissect them was a bit of a guilty pleasure. He could imagine what Sherlock would say, think, in his natural setting. It was nice. It no longer broke his heart. Instead it was just a dull ache of _missing him _but he was okay. He could cope.

Of course, John didn't exactly have the same luxuries and liberties as he did back in the glory days (entering the crime scenes, for example, was a lot less socially acceptable without Sherlock on hand), and it wasn't like he was remotely helpful towards the cases. Whether he tried to deduce the case or not was a moot point, because he had no influence and no real proof anyway, but he still liked to not quite feel so distant from it all. Once or twice he'd quizzed Lestrade abut a case over a pint and Lestrade would give him a half hearted knowing look and offer him slightly more information than he was strictly at liberty to say. John didn't ask too much, though, given the acute awareness of how much strain they Sherlock and him had put on Lestrade's Job, marriage and general welfare.

The Ronald Adair case had been featured heavily in the papers. Sensationalised and capitalised upon, no doubt, but something about the whole thing had peeked John's interest. He wanted to know why such a seemingly nice man had been murdered. The locked-door-no-way-of-getting-in-thing reminded him of the Blind Banker case and, well, it was so very attractive in its peculiarities.

He might ask Lestrade about this one. If it hadn't been solved in a week or two.

For now he loitered outside the building trying not to appear perversely interested. John expected that even a human spider wouldn't be able to scale the side of that building one of those luxury, sky rise apartment blocks. And Adair had lived in the penthouse.

A list of Sherlockian thoughts were running through his brain and, although he was sure that Sherlock would find his attempts lacking, John always found himself slightly surprise by how much of Sherlock had diffused into him: _Penthouse... could have afforded a house, chosen not to love of glamour? Bachelor pad? String of girlfriends? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...? Obviously not scared of heights._

John rolled his eyes at himself for that one.

John looked up at the sky rise building next to Adair's. He thought of a Study in Pink, with the two buildings... shooting through the window. It was a long shot, John had to admit, but perhaps... if you had the right marksman, John supposed shooting from one building to the other wouldn't be impossible... if you ignored the fact that no one heard a bullet (silencer?) and that there was no motive.

Still, maybe he'd suggest it to Lestrade. Admittedly it was farfetched, but it seemed like the only explanation at this point and Sherlock had always been coming up with mad theories which always seemed to come true. He wouldn't tell Lestrade he'd been to the crime scene, obviously, as the man didn't need anything else to worry about and letting slip to people that he still visited crimes scenes was usually the sort of thing that induced people suggesting he should return to therapy (bullocks, this was his way of dealing and it was _fine_). But he'd mention reading about the Adair case in the paper and see if he'd gotten anywhere with it, subtly mentioning the neighbouring apartment block as a potential source for the bullet?

He pulled out his phone. _Pub tonight, Greg? It's been awhile. _He sent the text without deliberating, knowing that if he thought about it too much he'd talk himself out of it. It_ had_ been awhile and he'd always considered Gregory Lestrade as a friend (before, even, he'd really started considering Sherlock as a friend). Lestrade had offered up his sofa wordlessly when John had muttered something about how he just _couldn't _return to Baker Street right now. The explosive reaction from Mrs Lestrade had meant the stay had lasted an entire night (apparently, inviting part of the duo who'd caused the inquest and temporary suspension of Lestrade's job for a sleep over was a tad ridiculous in her view), but he'd appreciated it all the same.

He stood in front of the second apartment block, his eyes still fixed on what he imagined was Adair's window until he felt his phone buzz with a reply.

_Can't tonight, sorry. Big case. Lots of paperwork. Soon though, John _

The brush off wasn't entirely unexpected. John wondered if the Adair case was the big case (and, if it was, things must be picking up for Lestrade again after the inquiry had finished he was given suspiciously low profile, uncomplicated and downright depressing murders to investigate) and wondered if he should ask. He didn't, instead shoving his phone back in his pocket and deciding to walk back to the tube. He didn't exactly have anyone to go home too, but the day at the surgery hadn't exactly been relaxing and he could do with sitting down and having a cup of tea, instead of staring up crimes scenes hundreds of floors up. His quota for living in the past was now officially over for today.

After being stationary for such a lengthy period of time, John's movement started up suddenly meaning John didn't register the old man emerging from the apartment block he was standing in front of until he barrelled straight into him. The man didn't fall, but staged backwards as though John had hit him in the face.

John's apology was met by a strange hissing noise from the man, which led to John holding out one of his hands and taking another step backwards. The man he'd almost knocked down was virtually bent double with age, tufts of white-grey hair, a walking stick and, apparently, was very rude.

"Sorry." John said again, feeling more irritated than he cared to admit. Yes, he'd nearly knocked the poor man over, but he hadn't meant to and he_ had_ apologised. There was no need for the stream of swearwords protruding from the man's lips (his voice was strangely croaky too, as though any second now he was going to burst into tears or spontaneously die. An accent too. Thick... Yorkshire?). Behind the man's thick glasses, his strangely bright eyes were boring into John.

John didn't know what else the man was expecting him to do (get down on his knees and grovel?) so he shrugged at him, wished him a nice day, apologised again before beginning the walk back to the tube station rolling his eyes at himself. _Went to a crime scene and ended up nearly committing a crime myself. Mowed down a pensioner with an attitude problem. Not exciting enough for the blog, really. _

John made a resolution he didn't really mean about not thinking about the Adair case anymore and not visiting anymore crime scenes, full stop, but he made these sorts of internal claims all the time without any real conviction. John Watson wasn't still mourning. Not exactly, but he liked the nostalgia, reminiscing, pretending that it wasn't all over just yet. He didn't like to think of Sherlock as _dead _and as long as the criminal world continued to produce the sort of things that he'd find interesting, then... well... he seemed more absent than gone. Because who else was anyone going to turn to? Sherlock was the world's only consulting detective. John wasn't in denial, exactly, but these moments of self indulgence... he needed them. He was neither ashamed nor proud of that fact, it was just that Sherlock was always and would always be a part of his life and some sense of the words.

He was, however, slightly alarmed when he thought he saw the same old man twice on the journey home (a stupidly long journey home, given Adair's apartment had been a hell of a commute away), maybe he was paranoid or maybe he'd just had the misfortunate to nearly injure the most unforgiving pensioner in London.

And John thought that was bloody typical. And, secretly, he was thrilled.

* * *

_I was so amazed by the six reviews on the last chapter. Thank you so much everyone! Especially MusicWritesMyLife and MerryK who've reviewed more than one chapter. Hopefully there's going to be another update for this on Sunday (exams, apparently, mean I'm all inspired and stuff to write...) and in the next chapter... well, it's an interesting one. How do you think I did with John? Your reviews have been making my day, so thank you very much)_

_And thanks for reading)_


	5. Coincidence

The trip towards the part of London where Adair had lived turned out to be a complete waste of time. A quick look at the case file had made the source of the bullet infinitely obvious – from the apartment block opposite – but his exploration of that apartment block had led him to the unsalable conclusion that London apartment blocks were very big. He'd found a great number of apartments that would have been ideal shooting spots, but without knowing the angle at which the bullet had entered the man's head and without the gun being conveniently left at any of the flats he'd broken into, he couldn't get anywhere. And it seemed no one had bothered to map out the exact place Adair had been sitting in the room and the exact angle of things. He could go to morgue, and Molly was sure to be helpful, but he was running out of time. He should have known the whole thing was a red herring and now he'd wasted an unnecessary amount of time investigating something pointless.

It would be different if he had the liberty of walking straight into the crime scene to get a proper scope of things, but that was impossible – Moran would, if he wasn't completely moronic, have the crime scene watched by now. And walking straight onto the scene of Moran's last murder was a sure fire way to get blown up. This, in itself, was risky enough.

The only good thing was that Mycroft seemed not to have relocated him yet. Giving Mycroft the slip was an art he'd started to learn at university and perfect in the two years of his hiatus, but still – hiding from Mycroft in London was more of an achievement and was no doubt going to really piss him off. Sherlock's latest disguise was, it was fair to say, utterly ridiculous. Old man: walked with a stick, lots of fake hair, utterly over the top and dramatic. So ridiculous it had to be true.

Sherlock straightened up slightly just before he was about to leave the building, sending a long look at the CTV camera feeling privately amused. Maybe, later, when Moran was in prison his next in command would look over this footage and suddenly think _shit – he actually came to the crime scene, we just didn't notice him. _Then he folded his posture back into the uncomfortable stance of an old man, much shorter than himself, who had to use a walking stick... before swiping his access card (pick pocketed half an hour earlier) and stepping out onto the street.

Then Sherlock froze.

Sherlock was a firm believer in coincidence (as opposed to fate, or any other higher power that led to things fitting together so nicely), as well as believing that for the large part things usually assigned the title of coincidence could very easily be linked in ways that most people couldn't be bothered to see – Sherlock supposed that really, this was the latter, because maybe he should have supposed that John would still c_are _about the cases. But it felt like a coincidence. It felt horrific.

It was a high profile case. John couldn't exactly have missed it. There was a part of him that was registering a degree of pride that John had continued to be so resolute, but then all of his brain was taken up by _JohnJohnJohnJohn._

Sherlock couldn't breathe, because John was _right there. _John Watson was right_ there _and Sherlock was practically going to have to walk into him to be able to get away.

He was facing away, eyes stretched upwards in the direction of Adair's penthouse apartment. If he hadn't been facing away, Sherlock didn't know what would have happened – because he was still frozen, stock still, in the entrance way to the apartment block and he _did not know what to do_.

Sense and reason hit him again viciously, and Sherlock was reminded starkly of the decision that he had made – that he was to avoid John until after the case, because he would not be able to throw himself into the case otherwise. Even without the fact that all Sherlock wanted to do, at this moment, was retreat to Baker Street with John and watch something crap on television, or piss John off by conducting ridiculous experiments and return to the strange state of domesticity they'd shared – the only sort of domestic life that hadn't made Sherlock itch for something to happen... even without all of that, there was the simple matter that John was not likely to take the whole situation lying down. He couldn't imagine how that particular conversation would go, but he hardly imagined it would be pleasant or enjoyable in any way. Nor did he think it was something they could squeeze in over a coffee before he went dashing off to clap Moran in handcuffs... no, everything was going to take a lot of time and energy. Neither of which he had could spare at the moment.

It was essential that he had no contact with John until everything was over. He'd been counting on Mycroft to ensure that a _coincidence _like this wouldn't happen... and after putting so much energy into giving him the slip, he'd walked _right into him._

He needed to get away. John had been stationary for a good few minutes and Sherlock decided that if he walked away now, there'd be no real damage done – his heart was beating furiously in his chest, the adrenaline was pumping – but he was still thinking clearly. He steeled himself, bent over the infernal walking stick and set off walking, precisely the second that John Watson decided he'd been standing around for much too long and whirled around...

They collided. Sherlock recoiled. John was apologised; his normal, steady voice forming all these words and saying things that Sherlock couldn't register. Because this was John, the origin of all his ruin and the sole reason he'd cared to undo it. Solid, steadfast, reliable John who _cared. _And not in the suffocating, frustrating way his brother cared about him (an incessant fly he wanted to swot away; an irritating, extraneous pressure), but in an all-encompassing _I'd do anything _sort of way. He hadn't forgot a single moment from Baker Street, but now they were being forced to the forefront of his mind; a million conversations and situations, the togetherness, _friendship_.

Sherlock needed to speak. John had apologised and, at current, he was not acting his part of old man particularly successfully. _Grumpy, bitter pensioner _now seemed the only option to fall back on. But it was too much to hope that John wouldn't recognise his voice. On reflex, maybe, he was suddenly speaking – another crude distortion of his voice. Obvious. Stupid.

Careless.

"Have a nice day." John Watson said, ever so slightly sarcastically, trudging off down the path that Sherlock had been intending to take to get towards the tube station. If he were sensible, he'd walk to the other tube station… but Sherlock didn't think he'd ever been called _sensible _before. He justified his decision as he started to walk, that this tube station was closer, more convenient and that his aversion to the tube was even stronger to that_ particularly_ stop… he could get a cab, but Sherlock always took cabs and Mycroft probably wouldn't be searching for him on the tube (although given the length of time it had been since he'd given him the slip, Mycroft was probably looking for him everywhere).

Sherlock thought it was inadvisable to be found by his brother right at this second, as he was entirely sure that he'd probably embrace the side of him that was livid over the lack of security surrounding John. Sherlock shouldn't have been able to get within a hundred of meters of him without being intersected, whether he'd given him the slip or not, and this oversight with the added altercation that Sherlock had actually physically _ran into him _meant he was more than likely to flip out. He'd given Mycroft strict orders that John was supposed to be the priority, repeatedly, and yet his brother had fed him a string of well supported lies about his state of being and was apparently content enough to know where about he was. And, yes, Sherlock had flat out refused Mycroft's suggestion that investigate the Adair murder more fully before implementing the plan, he would have expected his brother to know that Sherlock often directly contradicted him just for the sake of contradicted him. That was hardly knew; it had been a continual arrangement since Sherlock had been about five years old. So, the very fact that this could have happened was enough to drive him to state of anger towards his brother that he'd managed to avoid for about three years, instead falling back on a healthy relationship of frustrating, irritation and goading. Anger, though, anger with an entirely different ball ground, and he'd been reliably informed by John Watson that Sherlock did not deal with anger well.

He was probably proving that hypothesis by walking to the same tube station as John, but frankly he thought he deserved a chance to dissect something of John's welfare before returning to the plan as planned. Mycroft had been lying to them which meant that they happy picture he'd painted was completely fictitious, which meant there'd been something to hide – that had been nagging away at the back of his brain since the whole lying business came to the foray. Still, he'd been keeping a fair balance on all these different trains of thought with the idea of ensuring that the case went fine before everything was shot to hell and Sherlock had to deal with the aftershock of everything else. Really, the case was transport – but it was necessary for the time being. He hadn't been dwelling on John. At least, not to the point where it stopped him from thinking properly. Now, he couldn't drive the man out of his thoughts.

He hadn't seen him since the graveyard. That had been before he'd had to leave the country and he'd wanted his own chance to say goodbye. Yes, it had been sentimental and indulgent, but that had been before Mycroft had a chance to judge and laud over Sherlock's every decision so he hadn't minded entirely. He wasn't wholly sure whether it had helped or not, but it had given him some insight on how much influence John had in leading him to want to defy his logic: it had been physically painful not to jump from behind the tree and declare himself to be _that miracle, _with only the logic that John would probably not believe what he was seeing, anyway, anchoring him in position.

It was difficult to deduce much from this far away with only the man's receding profile walking away from him. He looked as though he'd put on a bit of weight and then lost it again, which Sherlock put down to a relatively long term relationship that was now beginning to dissolve and collapse (all the more convenient for Sherlock; John's girlfriends were an annoying, persistent constant of life which he hadn't missed). So, the situation wasn't looking too terrible thus far. Nothing which Mycroft should have felt the need to hide from him.

Sherlock was not going in the same direction as John, yet… by taking a slightly different route on the tube then it would seem he could ensure three stops with the two of them on the same carriage; enough time to deduce the damage, or lack of, leaving him in a much better position to decide exactly how the reveal should go. When the case was all finished and tied up, obviously.

Moving slightly too fast for his old man caricature, Sherlock was able to end up on the same carriage. He sat down the other end, wishing he'd picked a more inconspicuous costume for this particular jaunt. John glanced at him.

The rush of John related data was invigorating: _permanent position at a practice, relationship has been continuing for about four months, is neither well off nor skint, has brought a new jumper_, _turned up at the scene of Adair's case on a whim… semi-regular practice of visiting crime scenes (only cases of a nature that was hard to ignore), deduced where the bullet had come from but still clueless as to a motive…_

Sherlock missed his stop.

John, by the look of the increased number of times he'd checked the tube map (a habit that was really unnecessary; John knew the tubes like the back of the hand and used them daily), John was about to change to a different line. Sherlock should, really, change to the southbound platform that would take him back to the stop he'd just missed.

He followed John off the tube, walked straight past the southbound platform and, once again, ended up on the same carriage again.

It was too late. He's prediction had been correct, with John factored into the equation his logic had been shot to hell. One incidental meeting and now Sherlock appeared to be following home; he found the blind idiocy of this almost reassuring. He'd spent three years detaching himself, once again, from all the things that made him human – and doing something so obviously ridiculous was entirely human and… after John had declared him the _most human, _screwing up so astronomically was almost a nod in his direction.

Anyway, Mycroft was sure to stop being such a blithering idiot and show up any moment now: dragging Sherlock off to a different part of London, drilling sense and consequences into his head until Sherlock blew up at him. Then, grudgingly, they'd complete the case and everything would return to normal. Eventually, at any rate.

Sherlock rather thought that the whole thing must be quite the moral dilemma for John, who – by the very unsubtle way he kept staring at the part of the carriage on the tube where Sherlock was sat – had by now picked up on the idea that he was being followed: John shared the _normal human_ instinct that seemed to value the health and welfare of the young and the old more than the fit and healthy, as well as a soldier instinct and a Sherlock-engendered distrust for everyone. So, would John be planning to attack the old man who was following home? Would he try and push Sherlock towards an old people's home and have done? Call the police about being stalked?

No, he wouldn't call the police, Sherlock decided. John had been glancing at the tube map more regularly since the last stop, double checking he was about to get off at the right stop, so Sherlock pre-empted his movement by standing up before John could – that would throw him, at any rate, make him think that he was just being paranoid.

Sherlock could practically hear the slightly intoxicating rush of John's thoughts – they were so clearly written across his features that Sherlock found it almost comical – and Sherlock was beginning to question why the hell he hadn't just blown up Sebastian Moran several months along and come the hell home. _The man knows where I'm going. He's definitely following me. Knows who I am. Related to the Adair murder? Something to do with Sherlock. _

Mycroft was going to realise something was wrong very quickly. In fact, Mycroft having not noticed the fact that Sherlock was currently sat on the same tube carriage as John Watson meant he definitely needed to think about retiring soon. S_tupid._

Sherlock had just about decided that, round about now, it would occur to John that Sherlock was the murderer of Adair. It made little sense in reality, but it was the sort of normal-person logic that John occasionally fell back on.

Any second now one of Mycroft's men would show up taking either John or Sherlock away. If they didn't, well, Sherlock was going to have serious words with his older brother.

Then again, Sherlock was the one who'd willingly followed John Watson home even though it was going to do no good and would probably ruin everything, but it was difficult to think about anything to do with the case when John had set off walking and Sherlock was trying to sort-of-inconspicuously continue follow him even though he had no plan or no idea what the _hell _he was doing.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure at what point he'd decided to sod it all, because he wasn't used to the way his brain was racing – not with the usual endless deductions and observations, but with scenarios and the weight of the past three years pressing down on his shoulders. It was absurd, all this sentiment, but it seemed that Mycroft understood him more than he thought, because Sherlock did not think he would be able to walk away.

So, he'd take a risk. Because he wanted to. Because he could.

The lock took less than a few seconds to pick and then Sherlock was stood in John's flat (_cheep, lives alone, doesn't like it very much, working at a better practice, less than expected numbed of items belonging to girlfriend dotted around, drinking more tea than is probably healthy, watched Eastenders last night even though he hates it_). Finally, Sherlock had enough data to piece together the pieces of John's mentality: used to visit crime seems more often, was feeling sentimental due to the dying relationship, spent yesterday evening alone and bored – lots of tea, Eastenders – and today would have grasped at the chance at anything to fill in the space and avoid the same situation… saw the Adair case in the paper. So, Sherlock concluded, he was okay. He moved out of Baker Street (too many memories?) but he was just fine. John Watson was fine.

And, currently, John was stood squarely facing the door with that military stature of his, hand shaking slightly (just for a second, then it was steady), gun raised, pointing _straight at him_.

Ah.

* * *

_I have this feeling people won't like this chapter, ahha. But, well, I'm trying to keep relatively close to the ACD version of this story... so, there's a couple of points I wanted to definitely keep the same. Thanks for the reviews and for reading. It's been lovely reading your responses and stuffs and I'd love to continue doing so :)_


	6. According to Plan

Sherlock hadn't exactly deduced a course of action yet. John was there, in the same room as him, pointing a gun at the position between his eyes. As was often the case in these sorts of situations, the first port of call had to be to remove the threat of the gun – Sherlock really wasn't in the mood to be shot at, particularly as John was really quite good at shooting people and was unlikely to miss. Given the situation John was unlikely to shoot to kill, he was still _sort of _pretending to be an old man, but the inconvenience of having to go to hospital about a wounded arm or leg would definitely push back his current plans by at least a week. Plus, John was sure to feel at least slightly bad about not seeing Sherlock for three years and then shooting him in the middle of their grand reunion (not that John was aware that it was a grand reunion, just yet).

Sherlock straightened up slightly so that he could see straight. The options seemed to be limited to pretending to be a very stupid and delusional pensioner, revealing himself or taking John down by force. All were doable. None seemed advisable. Pretending to be a delusional pensioner was a slightly flawed plan given he'd followed John home and broken into his apartment (the more the realisation of what he'd done settles in his brain, the more annoyed he was at his own complete idiocy) and already it was too late to feign shock over the sight of the gun so, he could try it, but it wasn't likely to work. Talking in his normal voice and stripping off the fake grey tufts of hair seemed entirely idiotic when John had a gun too – not that Sherlock thought John was going to be angry enough to shoot him (maybe punch him in the nose and or teeth, but certainly not shoot him), but if someone who'd been dead for three years broke into his apartment, Sherlock would probably panic. And John was, as he kept having to remind himself, ordinary... so that didn't seem to guarantee a situation where he wasn't shot at, either. Taking John down by forced seemed counterproductive in terms of making John less annoyed at him, but it was beginning to look like he didn't have much choice in the matter.

"I wanted to apologise for my rudeness earlier." Sherlock said, in the same rough, Yorkshire accent from before. John had told him countless times that Yorkshire was really not his forte and that he should really stick to Newcastle or Cockney, but it was too late. He'd made a split decision. Probably, some part of his mind palace had been thinking about John's stance on that accent when it had come from his lips, but it was too late now. Not that it really mattered, because John definitely did not believe that he was a rude old gentleman.

"Breaking into my flat? Bit rude, as apologies go."

Sherlock raised his hands over his head.

Where the hell was Mycroft? This should never have gotten this far.

John had the gun advantage, as far as things went, but Sherlock had the advantage that he knew John. He'd seen him fight plenty of times, mostly because Sherlock had gotten them knee deep in something nasty and complicated, but more than that he understood exactly how John thought.

He was obviously feeling threatened if he felt the need to pull out his gun, which was probably sensible given Sherlock had followed him home and broken into his flat (and John looked a little more out of shape than when Sherlock had last seen him, which was definitely helpful in the removing gun by force agenda), but John wasn't going to shoot a man who posed him no direct threat. More, John was curious – he wanted to know what the hell was going on.

John lowered the gun.

Sherlock took slow step forward, away from the view of the doorway, eyes fixed on John.

Then John stepped forwards with his eyes narrowed to assess him and Sherlock tried to imagine what conclusions John would be getting to: probably something between the mundane obvious and the truth. He was intrigued enough to take another step forwards, which was more or less what Sherlock had been counting on.

In fact, John Watson was just about to ask a question when Sherlock made his move. Everything about this case seemed to be marred with the crude and the obvious, or maybe it was because he was resenting every second of it, but with swift jab to the stomach the gun dropped.

Too obvious. Too obvious for military, wonderful John. He'd been expecting it.

Kicking the gun away was a mistake, sending Sherlock's balance off slightly at the exact second that John's punch collided with his face (not avoiding the teeth or nose, this time). Sherlock stumbled. John was scrabbling towards the gun... Sherlock reached out a grabbed the material of his jumper, pulling him away and pushing him in the opposite direction. Another punch.

John knew that he was wearing a disguise, that much was evident at that point (as very few old men could come close to taking down John Watson), but not who was lying underneath, and as John's fingers grabbed the edge's of Sherlock's old-man-coat, it occurred t him that John was liable to do something dramatic like pull off part of his disguise.

Sherlock definitely did not want his lack-of-death to be revealed by John ripping off his fake moustache in the middle of a fistfight. That couldn't happen. It was the definitely the wrong side of dramatic.

Sherlock sent his knee into John's good leg before shoving his good shoulder backwards for good measure.

In hindsight, Sherlock should probably have observed the table. No, he had observed the table, he just thought that John's balance was slightly better, or that he was slightly weaker, or the table was slightly further away.

John's head crashed into the side of the table a little too forcefully, just as his arm collided with Sherlock's chest, forcing him backwards. Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and pulled him away from the table, feeling a sting of annoyance when he saw that his head was bleeding from the collision with the table. This was not, exactly, how he'd anticipated thing going.

"John," Sherlock muttered, propping him up against the table leg and gripping his arm so tightly that it must have been painful had it not been immensely overshadowed by the splitting pain in John's head, "John, are you all right?"

"What...?" John asked feebly, squinting at him through semi focused eyes.

"Don't pass out," Sherlock said, half begging, really, "look, John _I'm sorry_."

"Who...?"

Oh, right. The disguise. Sherlock sighed impatiently and began undoing the steps he'd taken to become a ridiculous pensioner, kneeling next to John and watching his eyes carefully. It was much easier to undo than it was to perfect, particularly as now all Sherlock wanted to do was ascertain that he hadn't accidentally permanently injured John whilst attempting their reunion.

"How bad is it?" Sherlock demanded, looming in front of John's vision like a bad nightmare.

"Oh God." John Watson muttered, closing his eyes slightly and blinking.

"No, John. It is me," Sherlock said, "look, I'm alive. Just, _don't pass out_."

"You're..?"

"Yes, here, alive, breathing, good. But, that's not really important right now, you need to..."

Sherlock trailed off because, evidentially, it was too late. John Watson had already blacked out.

Footsteps on the stairs. Mycroft. Late. The man was always imprudent and annoying, but Sherlock hadn't expected him to disappoint him so thoroughly all over again.

He was running out of time. Mycroft would make him leave. Sherlock was aware of that. Anyway, Sherlock _had _to leave because his original plan already had him arriving at Baker Street in his usual getup and leaving in disguise to ensure that Moran's men were convinced he was in the building. And yet, it seemed even more ridiculous to follow John home and _knock him out _before running off whilst the man was unconscious than it was to involve him; at least there was some logic behind the latter, where as the former option was a clear indication that Sherlock was every bit as much of the idiot as his brother thought him to be.

John had called him an idiot once. It was the only time Sherlock had ever taken the ascertain as a compliment.

"John," Sherlock muttered, still bent at his level, "John, you need to be at the Chinese restaurant two down from Angelo's at seven. Do you hear me?"

John was stirring slightly. He opened his eyes for a second. One hand reached out and gripped around Sherlock's wrist, as if trying to prove that Sherlock was solid. "You'll need to get away from the others. At seven."

Sherlock was pacing the floor by the time Mycroft arrived (after an excessive number of men with guns to clear the way, of course) and continued pacing for a few seconds to avoid the look in Mycroft's eye – either it would be some sort of satisfaction, which would be easier to deal with, or some twisted sort of sympathy or understand, which would be unbearable.

"Haven't you caused enough damage?" Mycroft asked eventually, in a clip tone that was quite clearly Sherlock's prompt to leave. Sherlock glanced at John again, who was now being tended to by one of Mycroft's ridiculous doctors, before shoving his hands in his pockets and stalking out of the scene painfully aware of the most obvious observation – that it hadn't exactly gone very well.

* * *

_So, an almost meeting. Oh dear. I'm trying to follow ACD's version of the reunion for the most part, so I really wanted a good reason for John passing out ahha. But, yeah, I'm not very good at writing fight scenes. It's currently two in the morning and I don't really like this chapter but I'm more or less giving up. Oh, and someone in a review asked if this is going to be slash. So, in answer to that, no it isn't._

_ Thanks for reading :)_


	7. Dinner

John wasn't angry. Or, maybe he was, he couldn't really pinpoint exactly one feeling right now because nothing made sense. He was used to life not making a lot of sense, but recently it had fallen into quite an easy pattern of _sense_ and as much as he missed the element of ridiculous three years was definitely a sufficient length of time for him to get used the normalcy. Being followed him by some strange man had sparked the _solider _in him and from then on things had disintegrated into the weird: the old man, who John had begun to expect wasn't that old anyway, had broken into his flat, seemed to have gotten taller, attacked him (to be fair, John had been pointing a gun at his head but, really, he had been _followed home _and his fitness levels had dropped since his life didn't including running around after criminals, so he had to defend himself in some way), caused him to get what was probably mild concussion from his kitchen table... then the man had said he was_ Sherlock _and that _he was alive _and to meet him for a bloody Chinese.

He'd passed out at some point between the man declaring himself to be Sherlock (and he had looked like Sherlock, but then John had been a tad distracted by the whole _head wound _thing) and the man insisting that he _had _to be at this Chinese restaurant at seven. John thought it was quite presumptuous for the man, whoever he was, to assume he'd be conscious or willing to intend this goddamn rendezvous, yet here he was sat with an aching head in a Chinese restaurant waiting for someone to turn up.

Mycroft had been in his apartment when he came too, along with his PA and an annoying doctor who kept insisting that John had just fallen over, hit his head and had a bit of a delusion. This, of course, had been absolute bullshit... and he may have been quite articulate in expressing this to the doctor, pointing out that if he was just having a _bit of delusion _then why the hell was Mycroft Holmes currently drinking tea out of one of John's mugs, looking as if the fact that it wasn't _fine china _really displeased him. And why had the delusion started half an hour before he'd hit his head? And why his gun wasn't in its usual place in the draw with the rest of his Sherlock-related-memorabilia?

"There has been an oversight on my behalf," Mycroft had said, in that usual prim way of his that John had almost missed – because damn, he hadn't seen Mycroft for at least two years. The man had a frustrating habit, in the first year, to continue abducting him off the streets and appearing in his new flat – or Baker Street, before he'd moved out – at unpredictable times to ensure that John wasn't _about to do anything rash. _ John had flat out told him he didn't want to see him, that he wasn't interested in doing anything rash ever again and that Mycroft Holmes made his blood boil beyond even Sherlock-levels of irritation. He was angry at Mycroft, indefinitely, and probably would continue to be so for an extreme length of time – but then the man had to deal with his own grief in his atypical caring-is-not-an-advantage fashion so something John thought being so emotionally in adept was sure to be punishment in itself.

"I don't care," John had said, "I just want someone to tell me what the hell is going on and then I want you to leave. That man said he was _Sherlock_."

Of course, Mycroft had given him no answers and had instead lead John into a path of thinking suggesting that the Sherlock-impersonate was obviously bad news (and, to be fair, John couldn't think of an explanation of someone pretending to be a dead man, breaking into his flat and knocking him out which was _good news)_, but John had still wound up relying on the fact that Mycroft continually underestimated him to break out of his own apartment and get a cab to the Chinese restaurant.

Whoever it was that seemed to want to meet for a Chinese so much was currently rather spectacularly absent and John was debating whether or not to order a portion of lemon chicken or give up and go home, but then Mycroft was sure to know where he was by now and was likely to be seconds away from digitally making the Chinese menu spell out _what the hell are you doing, John? _Or something equally ridiculous he didn't really like moving and making it easier for him.

And that was when the man in painting overalls came out of the bathroom looking directly _at _John in such a way that John found himself staring at the man for a few long seconds.

Then the man sat down opposite John. Now, John could recognised the icy colour of the man's eyes ad those godamn cheekbones, where as ten minutes previously he'd looked like a different person. John fixed his gaze on the Chinese menu and thought he most definitely needed something deep fried.

"Hello." The man opposite said.

John considered the benefits of egg fried rice.

"Hi." He added in a stiff voice, trying to get his head to focus on the choice between whether he was hungry enough for pancake rolls or not, but finding it quite difficult to properly concentrate. He cast it off as a doomed idea (stupid, too) and then looked back up at the man opposite, not entirely sure what he should damn well say. "You're late." He finally settled on because everything about this was ridiculous and he was currently knee deep in shock (perhaps he was having a bit of a delusion?) and so he should definitely have the right to be just as ridiculous if he wanted to bed.

The man opposite – John wasn't about to think of him as Sherlock, because he'd watched Sherlock jump of a building and he'd identified the body and he'd accepted the fact that his best mate was dead – raised his eyebrows slightly.

And there was silence.

John concluded that this was a bit bloody awkward.

"Not dead then?" John suggested conversationally.

"No." Sherlock said evenly, eyeing John the way he'd eye chemicals which were supposed to be reacting in a very obvious quite violent way, but were doing absolutely nothing. "Are you...okay?"

"Bit confused," John said, "sure it will all clear itself up in a minute."

John hoped the sarcasm involved in that was evident.

"I... faked my own death."

"Right, course," John said, nodding, "obviously."

"Are you hungry?"

"Starving," John said, "nothing like getting knocked out by your dead ex flatmate to work up an appetite. _What the hell is going on_?"

John hadn't expected his fist to hit the table, exactly, nor had he expected his final words to come out quite so loudly.

"You should order," Sherlock said, catching the waitresses eye, "your lunch at work was minimal because they make terrible sandwiches, you went trekking across London straight after work to take your mind off the imminent break up before getting knocked out –"

"– by you – "

"– by me," Sherlock agreed, "and we're already running late."

John closed his eyes and tried to make everything make sense. When he opened them again, Sherlock was ordering him the lemon chicken with egg fried rice and pancake rolls and it still didn't make much sense. He was considering that this was some strange, perverse dream, except John didn't dream but for the dreams about the war. He considered a few more wild probabilities, but came up with nothing more creative than someone slipping a magic mushroom into his dinner last night.

"Not eating," John said slowly, "on a case?"

"Yes."

"Long case, is it?"

"Somewhat," Sherlock said, leaning forwards slightly, "they were pointing a gun at your head, John, I had no choice," John had never heard Sherlock talk so damn quietly, "I wanted to come back."

Sherlock had always been balls at emotions, but the more John began to get past the fact that _Sherlock was bloody there _the more he was able to take in the fact that the man looked bloody awful. Combined with the fact that he had mild concussion, he was very very confused and he was oddly aware that Sherlock breaking into his flat hadn't been very rational, he thought that he might be able to make a small allowance for the fact that _this was all flaming nonsense _for a few seconds and not demand a full and conclusive explanation from his dead (?) best mate right this second.

At least until his rice arrived.

"Need me on this case?" John asked, pressing his knuckles into his forehead.

"Of course." Sherlock said and he smiled slightly, in a way that suggested that he was very much dreading the point in time when John had gotten through the confusion and the headache enough that he could demand _the full story_ and perhaps actually put some faith in the fact that this real, living, breathing Sherlock actually existed.

* * *

_Why is it that I always find myself updating this at a stupid time in the morning? Sorry for the delay in update, I've been finishing my Alevels then when on holiday with my best friends and had a mild case of writers stop. Hopefully, now its summer, I'll have the time to write this straight through to the end at some point soon. Thanks to anyone who's still reading! CC is always welcome and reviews make me very cheerful. :)_


	8. Conversation

John was about half way through his second pancake roll when the first text arrived. Sherlock hadn't been expecting it, actually, had already cast whatever woman it was this time as another of John's dead causes and hadn't given it much more thought than that, but, apparently, things were still in the tentative closing stages if John's slightly pained expression upon reading the text was anything to go by. He immediately set down the phone again and continued eating, although a little slower than he had been doing previously.

Sherlock was struck, once again, by John's unique ability to pick the most inconvenient and frustrating candidates for the continual opening of 'girlfriend' and that, after three years without seeing John, it was almost criminal that there was still one lingering around and taking up too much of Sherlock's brain space. And, currently, when he was putting every effort into stopping his mind from racing out of control and doing something stupid (well, anything further – because his catalogue of stupid of the day's events was far too extensive for it to be expanded).

By the time John had polished off all but a single piece of chicken, the phone had buzzed three times. Each time John had read the text, frowned slightly and placed the phone face down on the table. Having spent enough time with John to catalogue most of his expression with the definition of what they meant, and plenty of time studying other's phone habits, the deductions that accompanied this were mostly automatic: John had classified the relationship as terminal, exactly as Sherlock had thought, but this woman was dragging the bitter ending out with suggestions of talking it out or something similar (relationships weren't really Sherlock's forte - if it had been Harry calling he'd have been able to predict the exact content and wording of the texts). She was angry, too, and John didn't really want to talk to her, yet seemed to feel obliged to read each of the texts with a world weary sigh.

"What's her name?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" John asked, his forehead creasing into confusion as he looked up at his dead best mate (an enigma if ever there was one). Sherlock nodded towards the phone. "Really?" John asked, eyebrows raising slightly, hand subconsciously reaching out and covering the phone.

"What?"

"You want to know her name? Sherlock, you've been dead for _three years _and now suddenly you actually give a damn about what my girlfriend's called?" John asked, his fork hovering in the never region between his plate and his mouth.

"Just… making conversation." Sherlock said uncomfortably – he had assimilated numerous more disastrous opening conversations than this, yet he still couldn't deny how much he was loathing sitting here flitting between not knowing what to do and being vaguely aware that there wasn't much he _could _do but let John continue on the same slightly bizarre path that they were currently on. Sherlock, after a lot of thought, had settled on anger and confusion as the two most obvious responses – and, thus far, all who'd been participated in Sherlock's well designed return plan (well designed until, of course, he'd messed up so utterly) had fulfilled those criteria quite sufficiently. Except Mrs Hudson, who'd gone from deeply shocked to really quite pleased over a course of about ten minutes. John, however, didn't seem to be particularly angry – although every so often it looked like it was simmering – and instead of confusion, he'd opted for a sarcastic acceptance of the situation. It was as if John had just accepted the fact that none of this made any sense, had pushed that aside with a degree of almost twisted amusement, before returning to a state that was almost normal but not _quite_.

Honestly, Sherlock thought it was a bit alarming.

"About my girlfriend?"

"Well?"

"Well, Sherlock," John said, setting down his fork, "I'd think there were a few more obvious places to start, like where the _bloody hell you've been _or what _you're even sodding doing here_."

"Thought we'd save that till later," Sherlock said, watching his flatmate slightly warily, "didn't think you'd want to miss the case."

"You're wearing your scarf," John said, abandoning his fork and pushing his plate away slightly, "and your coat, which are both currently in 221B."

John wasn't entirely sure he was capable of eating anymore. Although the Chinese which was really rather good (despite never eating, John had to admit that Sherlock had great taste in food restaurants which was not quite as ridiculous as the situation he was currently in, but was definitely up there) and had been an excellent distraction from the fact that he was currently sitting opposite someone who'd been dead for three years, the reality of the situation (which was slowly penetrating into his skull) was beginning to push away his appetite.

"Where you _haven't _been."

"Thought we were saving that till later?" John said weakly.

"Right," Sherlock said, sending him a penetrating glance before glancing at his phone, "better go." Sherlock said pointedly, throwing a fifty pound note on the table and heading for the exit without further comment.

It took John a few seconds longer for him to push back his chair, pull his jacket on and follow in Sherlock's wake, "bit of a bloody expensive Chinese."

"Didn't have any change. No time to wait." Sherlock said distractedly, hailing a taxi with the effortless ease that he always managed – although John had seen Sherlock in various locations around the country, he was always struck by how much he seemed to _fit _in London.

"Dead body getting cold?" John suggested as he clambered into the cab too.

"Not yet." Sherlock said grimly.

"Preventing the production of one?"

"Not quite." Sherlock said, turning to John and smiling slightly – he wasn't entirely sure whether he could bring himself to care that this was all wrong. John, at least, would appreciate the distinct irony and the peculiar nature of what they were about to do in a way that no one else would. Maybe he'd ruined his original plan by roping John in when, by all rights, he should be on the other side of London safely out of harm's way (he was already planning out what he'd tell John to explain his mistake later: that he'd needed John out of his flat to ensure his safety, that he didn't trust Mycroft's men to stop anyone remotely dangerous, that he'd calculated that being ten meters away from the scene of the crime was actually the safest place. John didn't need to know that his presence was a gross miscalculation of Sherlock's ability to deal with sentiment. Anyway, he'd probably work it out). Yet, he liked the fact that John was here – not least because he'd missed the man continually for three years, but because it seemed fitting for John to be present at the real moment of his return.

John's gaze was a question.

"We're going to frame someone," Sherlock said, twisting the words over in his mind, "for attempted murder."

"Whose?" John asked, taking a precautionary glance out of the window and recognising the route they were taking (as, per usual, Sherlock had given instructions to the cab driver before he'd been in ear shot).

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows up at that.

"Mine."

* * *

_Unedited and a bit rubbish, really. But updating this was on my to do list for the day so here we go :)_


	9. Breaking and Entering

The more Sherlock thought about John's reaction the more he thought he should have predicted it: John was rather talented at accepting the ridiculous and moving on. Mycroft had once commented on something very similar, in that usual disdainful way of his, in accordance with the first time the two had met – his ability not to panic in admittedly unusual and alarming situations was unrivalled and, although Mycroft had commented on this in a way which suggested it was the only reason John Watson hadn't ran very far away yet, Sherlock was used enough to his brothers way of expressing things to know this marked the fact that he was impressed. As things went, having your dead ex-flatmate turn up at your new flat and knock you out was a_ slightly_ more extreme case than being picked up off the street, taken to a disused warehouse and being half threatened and half nearly ending up spying on someone for money – but Sherlock had to admit it was on the same vein of things and John's only reaction to _that _had been to be slightly nervousness and to tell Sherlock that his life wasn't exactly normal.

"You're answering her texts then." Sherlock deadpanned when they were nearly at their destination.

"Good observation." John muttered in response, glancing between his phone and his window.

Well, if John was going to just _avoid _reacting and continually talk to him in the strange slightly disdainful way that was just a little less comfortable than the norm (the lacing of affection seemed to be slightly missing, so it seemed more bitter than just the standard sarcastic), Sherlock would take that as permission that he could concentrate on what was supposed to be important at current; the plan.

Although, as far as plans went, this one had involved a significant amount of preparation and little substance towards the end: not exactly Sherlock's favourite way of doing things but it was probably for the best considering now he had an extra person than expected on the scene. Still, it irked him that there was nothing eloquent or smooth about it. An idiot could have thought it up, really, and it was just clumsy and crude and it had taken a great deal of his energy to hide how much this bothered him to Mycroft.

"You brought your gun?" Sherlock asked, "you shouldn't need it, but…"

John shoved his phone back in his pocket, letting the half-finished response to Mary's text fester unsent and risked another glance in Sherlock's direction.

He'd missed the slightly odd feeling of talking about being in possession of firearms in taxis' and wandering whether or not the taxi driver was shaking with fear at the front of the cab, or thinking about turning them into the police (although, John had long since come to the conclusion that it wouldn't matter if anyone did – he _technically _wasn't allowed a gun but after John had managed to save both his and Sherlock's asses multiple times over thanks to the weapon, he suspected a clearance for it would mysteriously be authorise by someone in the British Government. If John didn't have the gun, he was sure Sherlock would find another way to acquire one – and Mycroft _definitely _didn't want that). The odd sensation of the bizarre that accompanied walking into crime scenes and breaking into houses and wandering around London with a gun knowing that, actually, he might well _need_ was one he'd never expected to become acquainted with again.

John nodded.

He wanted to voice the fact that he was a bit out of shape and wouldn't be much cop in a fight (particularly after getting bloody knocked out all ready today), before reminding himself that Sherlock could have deduced that even if they hadn't ended up in a fisticuffs situation. Whilst, of course, Sherlock had been wearing a bloody fake moustache.

Honestly, it was no wonder it hadn't really clicked in John's head yet: the whole thing was absolutely bleeding ridiculous.

"We have backup," Sherlock added, "again, the chances of needing it are minimal – but I suppose the Yard is sometimes useful when it comes to actual arrests."

"Lestrade?" John asked, except his voice didn't come out quite as he'd intended too. It took him a few seconds to pinpoint why and then it hit him – the idea that Lestrade might have known that Sherlock wasn't dead before him was… well, insulting. It hurt. Of course, that was petty and stupid and no doubt Sherlock hadn't been considering the emotional side of things (of course he hadn't) but, well, the idea that Sherlock hadn't immediately turned up at_ his_ flat doing something ridiculous was… unwelcome. All in all, it was a stupid thing to get upset about but that didn't mean John wasn't irritated by the whole concept – something which Sherlock definitely wouldn't understand and so wasn't worth voicing, in the long run.

"Hmm. We're here." Sherlock said, throwing a fifty pound note at the taxi driver before bursting out onto the street. John was half tempted to stay and wait for change, but decided against it; Sherlock's dramatics had a habit of costing slightly more than fifty pounds on occasions and if he was hell bent on squandering money then it wasn't his responsibility.

"Sherlock," John muttered, following after him with his head spinning slightly (the jury was out on whether that was thanks to the head wound or the sheer state of nonsense that reality seemed to have taken up), "Sherlock, a bit more information would -"

"We're a street away from Baker Street," Sherlock said, pulling out a key from his coat and unlocking one of the doors in front of him, "and we're breaking into this man's house. He's on holiday."

"You've got a key." John pointed out, following him into the house and glancing around the corridor vaguely.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said dismissively, taking to the stairs, "it would be better for us not to be reported to the police, at current."

" – why?"

"Well, I'm supposed to be dead, so -"

"No," John interrupted, pausing in his climb to watch Sherlock throw open a door on the first floor, disappear into a room and then turn off the light on the stairs, plunging John into absolute darkness (bloody typical, really), "I meant, why are we here, Sherlock?"

John had climbed the remaining stairs and stepped into the room after Sherlock before he got his answer. Although, by that point, he hardly needed Sherlock to tell him: the house was directly opposite Baker Street and this room aligned exactly with their old sitting room, giving an eerily perfect view into the room.

"I don't plan on having another gun pointed at me today, thanks," Sherlock muttered as he looked out over Baker Street, with an expression that John might describe as wistful if he didn't know Sherlock any better (or maybe he'd definitely call it as wistful, but knew that would annoy Sherlock enough even if was just internal so discarded the word immediately), "_observation."_

* * *

_Not much progress in this one, but I'm fully planning on updating within like the next day or so and that chapter's likely to be a lot more interesting. Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter! It's lovely to know you don't think I'm way off with this (although, if you do, feel free to let me know that too) and thanks for reading :)_


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